R.I.P. Hattie ...

YOU GLORIOUS SLUT

Jun 27, 2024

We met Hattie for the first time at Amy’s Bread in Hell’s Kitchen — 42nd and 9^th.
Do they still call it Hell’s Kitchen?

Seems “quaint.”
You know what wasn’t “quaint?”

HATTIE.

HATTIE WIENER.
HATTIE RETROGRADE.
HATTIE THE WORLD’S OLDEST COUGAR.

HATTIE THE SLUT.
HATTIE THE DIVA.
HATTIE THE GURU.

Hattie the wise one.
Hattie the horndog.
Hattie the inventor.

Hattie the mega star.
Hattie the almost star.

Hattie the lover.
Hattie the adventurer.
Hattie the generous.

Hattie the narcissist.
Hattie the spiritualist.
Hattie the exhibitionist.

Hattie the lonely.
Hattie. Who left the planet. June 20. 2024. At 87.

This Hattie, this Glorious Broad, knew how to light up a room — she had that Marilyn Monroe quality. 50 years later. Whether it be a bakery or a swank cocktail lounge — Hattie had IT.

All eyes were on her.

She was used to it. And worked it. Whether it be for an extra cuppa coffee, a glass of fine sherry — or a $5,000 bonus — just for being — her.

That conversation at Amy’s Bread was three years ago — and was supposed to last 60 minutes. Instead, it lasted 266 minutes. We were not giving up our booth. We were transfixed.

“We” meaning, me and my Greek God creative partner and pal, Harry Mavromichalis — there to discuss a role in our first docuseries we were cobbling together at the time — searching for the star.

Needless to say. Hattie was that star.

And she got it the moment she swanned in. Wrapped in lavender feathers, shown above.

Hattie disclosed. Hattie disclosed a lot. Kinda too much for a first meeting. Hattie was unfiltered.

She used to say — “You cannot shame me. I am beyond shame.”

We went from laughing our asses off sitting over our now stale blueberry muffins — to ugly crying. In public.

She did that to you.

We talked about her message. The urgency of her message. That’s where the ugly crying came in:
The age trap.
The sex trap.
The dating trap.
The body trap.
The holding back trap.
The not saying what you want trap.
The hormone trap.
The age-appropriate trap.

Her joy.
Her source of joy.

And her depression.

What she needed to share. What she needed us to learn.

We came out after that 266 minutes fucking dazed. And thrilled to have met and to get to work with this Queen.

Since that first meeting, I have met Hattie, interviewed Hattie, highlighted Hattie, filmed and photographed Hattie many, many times.

I have always walked away with mixed feelings — a combination of elation — of awe — and confusion.

Is she a genius? Is she the wisest of all? Is she pure joy? Or is she tragically sad? Is she a sexual conquistador? Or is she a sexual prisoner? Is she a listener? Or just self-obsessed? Is she a giver? Or is she delusional? Is she fearless? Or is she …

In fact. Hattie was all the above. But what I realize now in retrospect … mostly …

HATTIE WAS A ROCK STAR.

She had no boundaries.

Like Madonna, she could make me cringe by some of the things she’d say. By some of the things she did.

‘Cause she absolutely did not give a shit.

She used to say — “You cannot shame me. I am beyond shame.”

And she meant it.

Hattie battled depression.
And talked about it.

Hattie wanted love.
Talked about that too.

She never found that lasting partner. Though the search for HIM would have made one helluva racy novel.

But, in the end, Hattie chose ownership. Pure ownership. Of her light. Of her body.
Of her dignity.

There has been so much casual taking away of our freedom as women — OUR ownership …
Of our sexuality.
Of our body.
Of our aging.
Of our death.
Of our choices.

Hattie chose suicide.
And not an easy form of suicide.

The only one that she was legally able to do.

It’s a hard choice to starve yourself.
It takes time. Two months.

After Hattie got confirmation of a serious heart condition —
one that took away her movement — her desire — her passion …

She’d had it.
She wanted out.

No reason for ugly tears now.

Hattie went down the way she lived.

Rock Star Style …